It was yet early in the morning; the blinds of all the windows in
the Taubenstrasse were as yet firmly closed, and only in a single
house an active, bustling life prevailed. At its door there stood a
heavy travelling-coach which a footman was busily engaged in loading
with a large number of trunks, boxes, and packages. In the rooms of
the first story people were very active; industrious hands were
assiduously occupied with packing up things generally; straw was
wrapped around the furniture, and then covered with linen bags. The
looking-glasses and paintings were taken from the walls and laid
into wooden boxes, the curtains were removed from the windows, and
every thing indicated that the inmates of the house were not only
about to set out on a journey, but entirely to give up their former
mode of living.

Such was really the case, and while the servants filled the
anterooms and the halls with the noise of their preparations, those
for whom all this bustle and activity took place were in their
parlor, in a grave and gloomy mood.

There were two of them--a lady, scarcely twenty-four years of age,
and a gentleman, about twelve years older. She was a delicate and
lovely woman, with a pale, sad face, while he was a vigorous, stout
man with full, round features, and large vivacious eyes which at
present tried to look grave and afflicted without being able to do
so; she wore a travelling-dress, while his was an elegant morning
costume.

Both of them had been silent for awhile, standing at the window, or
rather at different windows, and witnessing the removal of the
trunks and packages to the travelling-coach. Finally, the lady, with
a deep sigh, turned from the window and approached the gentleman who
had likewise stepped back into the room.

"I believe the trunks are all in the carriage, and I can set out
now, Frederick," she said, in a low and tremulous voice.

He nodded, and extended his hand toward her. "And you are not angry
with me, Julia?" he asked.

She did not take his hand, but only looked up to him with eyes full
of eloquent grief. "I am not angry," she said. "I pray to God that
He may forgive you."

"And will YOU forgive me, too, Julia? For I know I have sinned
grievously against you. I have made you shed many tears--I have
rendered you wretched and miserable for two years, and these two
years will cast a gray shadow over your whole future. When you first
entered this room, you were an innocent young girl with rosy cheeks
and radiant eyes, and now, as you leave it forever, you are a poor,
pale woman with a broken heart and dimmed eyes." "A DIVORCED wife,
that is all," she whispered, almost inaudibly. "I came here with a
heart overflowing with happiness--I leave you now with a heart full
of wretchedness. I came here with the joyous resolution and fixed
purpose to render you a happy husband, and I leave you now with the
painful consciousness that I have not bestowed upon you that
happiness which I sought so earnestly to obtain for myself. Ah, it
is very sad and bitter to be under the necessity of accepting this
as the only result of two long years!"

"Yes, it is very sad," he said, sighing. "But after all, it is no
fault of ours. There was a dissonance in our married life from the
start, and for that reason there never could be any genuine harmony
between us. This dissonance--well, at the present hour I may confess
it to you, too--this dissonance simply was the fact that I never
loved you!"

A convulsive twitching contracted the pale lips of the poor lady.
"You were a great hypocrite, then," she whispered, "for your words,
your solemn vows never made me suspect it."

"Yes, I was a hypocrite, a wretch, a coward!" he exclaimed,
impetuously. "They overwhelmed me with exhortations, supplications,
and representations. They knew so well to flatter me with the idea
that the beautiful, wealthy, and much-courted heiress, Julia Gilly,
had fallen in love with me, the poor, unknown Frederick Gentz, the
humble military counsellor. They knew so well to depict to me the
triumph I would obtain by marrying you, to the great chagrin of all
your other suitors. Flattery intoxicates me, and a success, a
triumph over others, fills me with the wildest delight. My father
spoke of my debts, my creditors threatened me with suits and
imprisonment--"

"And thus," she interrupted him--"thus you sacrificed me to your
vanity and to your debts--you falsely vowed a love to me which you
never felt, and accepted my hand. My father paid your debts, you
solemnly promised to all of us not to incur any new ones, but you
utterly broke your pledges. Instead of squandering hundreds as
heretofore, you henceforth lavished thousands, until my whole
maternal property was gone--until my father, in a towering passion,
turned his back upon us and swore never to see us again. The
creditors, the debts, the embarrassments, reappeared, and as I had
no money left with which to extricate you from your difficulties,
you thought you owed me no further respect and were not under the
necessity of remembering that I was your wife. You had a number of
love-affairs, as I knew very well, but was silent. Love-letters
arrived for you, not from one woman with whom you had fallen in
love, but from God knows how many. I was aware of it and was silent.
And when you were finally shameless enough to let the whole city
witness your passion for an actress--when all Berlin spoke
contemptuously of this flame of yours and of the follies you
committed in consequence--then I could be silent no longer, and my
honor and dignity commanded me to apply for a divorce."

"And every one must acknowledge that you were perfectly right. As a
friend I could not have given you myself any other advice, for I
shall not and cannot alter my nature. I am unable to accustom myself
to a quiet and happy family life--domestic felicity is repulsive to
me, and a feeling of restraint makes me rear and plunge like the
noble charger feeling his bit and bridle for the first time. I can
bear no chains, Julia, not even those of an excellent and
affectionate wife such as you have been to me."